Page 33 of Making It While Faking It
My bathroom smells fresh and lemony. It has been cleaned recently. While brushing my teeth, I check my face in the mirror. When did I take my makeup off? I don’t remember doing it. I remember wanting to do it, though.
I finish brushing my teeth and then twist and tie my hair up high on my head. But something feels insufficient about the way I’m presenting right now. I’m staring in the mirror at the single Treasure Grove, who lives all by herself, and certainly not with Achilles Lord.
I exhale slowly and let the back of my fingers trail down my cheek and stop at my chin. My skin flushes as I feel a sense of déjà vu. But it wasn’t me who touched myself this way. I feel as if Achilles trailed the backs of his fingers down the side of my face, cupped my chin, and then whispered something to me.
“Hmm,” I moan, lost in the image of myself staring back at me in the mirror.
Maybe that never happened at all. And after one deep inhale and long exhale, I’m back in the moment and anxious to start my day.
Judging by the bright quality of light flowing into my bedroom, I’d say it’s late Monday morning. I’m certain Achilles isn’t home. He’s a workaholic, thank God. But still, I let my hair live free from the topknot. All men like wild bedhead.
Instead of my grimy pajamas, I put on a yellow tank dress. I’m fine with the material hugging all my round parts. I’m also fine with my nipples pushing against the material. I turn to get a look of my rear end in the standing mirror. My eyebrows flash up. “Nice,” I whisper, hyping myself up. I can now head downstairs.
My day builds out in my head as I walk to the kitchen. I recall my last conversation with Lolly. The bills are mounting yet again. No matter what, I can’t stop myself from overspending on that restaurant of mine.
Before taking the stairs down to the first floor, I stop and turn in the direction of Achilles’s bedroom. I should thank him for taking such good care of me. It had been a tough haul, but he helped me get through.
But I would never show up at his bedroom door without permission, especially wearing this lounge dress. I see our kiss from Saturday night and him staring at me in the garden.
“Oh shit,” I say, looking down at my pebbling nipples.
Then I rush back to my bedroom and put on a nice fresh pair of baggy pajamas.
* * *
My eyes swell wide as I gasp when I see the time and date on the oven’s clock. It’s Tuesday, not Monday, and it’s 10:03 a.m. I squandered a full day being sick. Damn it.
I bet the voicemail on my cell phone is full. I know I have hundreds of emails to respond to, and meetings—I missed all of Monday’s meetings. I tug the refrigerator door open and take out a carton of eggs. There’s no time to screw around. I have to cook myself a vegetable omelet, dash upstairs to get dressed and call Lolly, and then take a cab to the restaurant.
I freeze with my fingers curved around a fresh block of American cheese.Where’s my cellphone, anyway?I work faster, dicing up scallions, broccoli, and red, orange, and yellow bell peppers. I cook a strip of bacon for extra flavor.
“Good morning,” Achilles says.
Squatting while searching through a lower cabinet for a cheese grater, I shoot up to my feet.
“Good morning,” I squeak out. Seeing him has caught me off guard. “I can’t find the cheese grater.”
I’m mesmerized by Achilles’s maleness as he walks in my direction. I recall the first time I saw him walk into Grove Family Bank building. He wasn’t just strutting for public consumption. It’s his normal gait. He is a man with the utmost confidence and natural regality. His eyes are on me, assessing as he approaches. He looks so yummy in a flawless black suit with a crisp white shirt beneath. “You look better,” he says as he opens the cabinet next to the oven and takes out the cheese grater.
“I feel better,” I say in a low voice and then swallow to rid myself of this rush of lust I’m experiencing. He’s so tall and athletic. I bet he’s strong in bed.
“You had a case of viral gastroenteritis,” he says.
I snap out of my stupor and take the grater from him. For those few seconds that we are holding the grater together, a flash of electric energy passes through me.
I start grating the cheese as my mind flashes back to the dinner from hell at Heart and Xan’s house. I cringe, remembering how he saw me vomit on my plate. “So, any word on how dinner ended the other night?” I ask.
I turn in time to see Achilles lower the fire under the pan I’m cooking bacon in.
“Shoot,” I say, shaking my head. I almost burnt the bacon. Having him around while I’m cooking is knocking me off my game.
“They didn’t kill each other,” he says, pushing the button to automatically make coffee. “Want one?”
He means coffee. I nod. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
We smile at each other, and I love the lightness between us for once. And gosh, he smells so good. His scent reminds me of a brand-new day fresh with possibilities.
